Squeegee
by kaydee falls
Summary: RENTfic. An outsider's view of one of our favorite RENT characters, as told by one of the most ignored RENT characters.


Squeegee

DISCLAIMER: not mine. thankfully. i wouldn't actually know what to do with them if i had em permanently. just think, i would have to write on a regular basis! ::shudders::  
  
Squeegee  
by kaydee falls  
  
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It is far too warm for the first of November.  
  
Not that I'm complaining. Hey, better warm than the alternative, being freezing. Freezing gives me trouble. For one thing, there's no heat in the miserable one-room hellhole I call home. Also, seeing as I work, ah, out of doors, the weather has an incredible impact on both my mood and my business. So I guess I probably should be grateful for the unnaturally warm fall.  
  
Except it gets damn hot out here. The sun glances off the asphalt and burns through the thin soles of my shoes. I sweat under my stiff jacket. I can't take off my jacket because if I leave it at home, I might never see it again. Locks and keys don't serve much purpose in my area, and winter is coming, though slowly. A couple of the neighborhood guys and gals are sensible enough to realize that my jacket might mean their life in a month or so. So I have to wear it, even in the blistering heat.  
  
Well, not that blistering. Just uncomfortable for a guy in a woolen jacket. I think the temperature hit 60 degrees, today. Far too warm for November.  
  
Not much traffic, today. I've strayed a bit from my usual East Village haunts, made my way towards the bridge to catch what few cars I can. Out-of-towners tend to be more charitably inclined, anyhow.  
  
A red Honda heads toward me. I proffer my squeegee and bucket in its direction. Honest living, man! I call. Very efficient!  
  
It speeds past, unheeding. Screw you too, buddy.  
  
A few minutes later, a hunk of junk makes its painful way down the street. Beat-up old VW, I think. Could use a new coat of paint. Or five. And definitely a wash. Perfect.  
  
I call. Window washer! Squeegee man! Make your car sparkle!  
  
The driver's window is rolled down, probably due to the warmth outside. Almost to my surprise, he slows beside me. Usually, people only like washes when they're stuck in traffic, anyway. Guess this guy ain't in any kind of rush.  
  
The driver looks familiar to me, and I'm not sure why, for a moment. How much? he asks. I'm kinda broke.  
  
Five dollars, I reply, trying to place him. He nods.  
  
Go ahead, then. Might as well be thorough, I got time.  
  
Sure, man. Got it! Back in my usual area of the East Village, I see this guy walk by a lot. Lanky, blondish fella, the rocker type. Never saw him in a car before; guess that's what threw me off. Also, he's usually got either a guitar or a girl in tow. I check the car. No guitar, no chick. No wonder I didn't recognize him immediately.  
  
I get to work on his windshield, first. Jeez, has this guy ever driven before? Doesn't he know that it helps to be able to see through his windshield? Not to mention his rearview mirrors, which aren't reflecting much through their thick layers of dust. Where'd he find this piece of scrap metal, anyway?  
  
I say, where you headed?  
  
Out of here, he replies shortly.  
  
Wanna be more specific? He glances up at me, surprised. Guess he didn't expect me to be chatty. Look, buddy, you said to be thorough, so I'm gonna be thorough. That means taking my time and getting this baby shiny. You gonna get bored if I don't talk.  
  
He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't argue. Santa Fe, he replies to my earlier question.  
  
My turn to raise an eyebrow. In this thing? Good luck. You definitely need this cleaned, then. How long you staying out there?  
  
I dunno. For a while, maybe. He looks away, eyes focused inward.  
  
I move on to the passenger side windows. Too bad. I seen you around sometimes, in the Village. Where's that girl you're normally with? He doesn't answer, but his mouth tightens. Latino, curly hair, fine ass? I prod.  
  
She's gone, he says.  
  
That why you off to New Mexico? Chasing after her?  
  
he says curtly. Where she goes is her own damn business. I'm getting the hell out.  
  
I study him carefully for a moment. Watching them go down the street was always like watching a soap opera. Sometimes you'd think there wasn't anyone in the world but them. Other times, they'd be bickering like there was no tomorrow. And still other times, she'd be clinging and sweet-talking him, while he kept going like he hardly noticed her there. That's what he looks like now. Like a stone. Blank, impassive, set, without emotion. To me, it always seemed that she was far more devoted to him than he was to her. Maybe she finally figured it out herself, and that's why she left him. I dunno. Either way, it looks like she broke his heart, whether he'll admit it or not.  
  
All right, whatever, man, I tell him, wiping the rearview mirror clean. What about your guitar? Never seen you without it.  
  
Jesus, are you stalking me or something? he asks, not seriously.  
  
Nah, I just notice people. Not much else to do between jobs.  
  
Right. I sold the guitar to get this. He gestures to the car he's sitting in.  
  
Bad move, pal. This is a hunk of junk, pardon my saying so.  
  
He shrugs. Best I could get for the money.  
  
I shake my head. Don't be ridiculous. You should've come to me, I'd have gotten you a better deal. Know this guy who has a garage on Canal Street, he does trades pretty cheap. You've been cheated.  
  
He shrugs again. I don't care. It runs, that's all that matters.  
  
All the way to Santa Fe? I comment skeptically. Well, your choice. But I don't think you should've ditched the guitar. Man, that thing was practically attached to you. Santa Fe you can live without. Your music, you can't. There's plenty of places in New York to hide from your chick, if you wanted to. But don't get rid of your chance at happiness!  
  
What do you know about my happiness, my music? he hisses. You're a squeegee man.  
  
I ignore his attempts to get me angry. Used to play the flute, I tell him. Loved that piece of silver. Played it in the subways for money. But not enough. Never enough. Sold it to get myself a home of sorts. I shake my head, regretfully, swiping at his back window. Stupidest thing I ever did. Couldn't afford the rent, so I ended up losing the apartment. Now I'm in a stinking one room misery, practically under the bridge. Share it with a few other bums. Just so we can say we're not homeless. Pretty pathetic. Wish I hadn't sold that flute. Not that it matters now. I manage without it, probably couldn't even play it anymore. What's done is done, and even if I got the money somehow, I don't think I'd buy a new one. I've moved on. But I shouldn't have.  
  
He stares at me, twisted around in his seat to see me. I walk forward and deliberately scrub the door handles on the driver side, temporarily setting aside the squeegee to wipe hard at them with my rag.  
  
Get that guitar back, buddy, I said. Don't give up a thing like that.  
  
He almost looks like he's gonna agree with me, but then shakes his head. I've gotta get out of here, he says. I can't just turn back now I've started.  
  
I say. What do I know about you, anyway. But when you realize you've made a mistake and come back, I add, try the car dealer on Canal Street. Tell him the squeegee guy sent you, and he'll give you more than this pile of sheet metal is worth. He owes me a favor or two. Then buy your guitar back, be sure to bargain the price as low as possible. You'll come out with a bit more cash than you started with. Not much more, probably. Maybe forty, fifty bucks. That might not seem like a lot to you, but it is, really. Would feed me for a week. I'm sure you could use it, too.  
  
He stares ahead, thoughtfully. Would it get you your flute back? he asks softly.  
  
I laugh. Nothing will get me my flute back, I reply. I am past that, really. Wouldn't know what to do with a flute, now. Just trying to save up, to live through another winter. It's coming, you know, even if it doesn't feel like it right now. That's why every five dollars helps. Honest living, man.  
  
I hold out a hand. I've finished his car. It will never shine, really, but it does look a hell of a lot better now than it did when I started. After a beat, he shuffles in his pocket and pulls out the five singles, and hands them to me. I grin, stuffing them into the deep pockets of my overly hot, woolen coat.  
  
I step away from his car, saluting him with my squeegee. Remember what I said, I call out, as the dinky engine coughs itself back into life. You sell this thing, get your guitar back. And the extra fifty or so. The garage on Canal Street!  
  
He shakes his head, but gives me a thumbs-up through the still-open window. As he drives off, I realize that I never did clean that one window. Didn't even think to ask him to roll it up, so I could wash it. Oh, well.  
  
I don't ponder it for long. Another car comes along, a nice Mercedes, from the direction of the bridge. I wave my squeegee at him. Hey! Honest living!  
  


* * * * *  


  
Early December, and the cold finally came. Thanking the good lord for my ugly woolen coat, I pray that the water doesn't freeze on my squeegee, as I wash the windows of the brown station wagon that got stuck in traffic on Avenue B. The water never actually does freeze to my squeegee, of course, but I still pray, anyway. Don't want it to start now.  
  
I dump the washrag on the large car's hood, so I can maneuver the squeegee across its oversized rear window more easily. When I return to the rag, there's something green under it. I hold it up to the fast-fading five o'clock light.  
  
It's a fifty dollar bill. I don't think I've ever actually seen a fifty dollar bill before.  
  
I glance at the driver, but he's not paying much attention to me, glaring impatiently at the unmoving row of cars in from of him. Quickly I look around, wondering where this small fortune came from.  
  
On the sidewalk, I see the retreating back of a lanky, blondish guy. He's somehow alone among the rush hour folks, who step aside to make room for both his tall frame, and the slightly cumbersome guitar slung over his shoulder.  
  
I smile slightly, watching him vanish around a corner. Then I stuff the bill into my overly large pocket and return to my work, whistling a long-forgotten tune that once belonged to a silver flute.  
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well, there ya go. just trying out a story from a completely untouched character. and hey, look, i didn't kill anyone this time! right. so, review, please. please?  
  
kaydee falls


End file.
